Last Tango in Tadfield
by OneThousandBooksLater
Summary: A little follow-up to A Bookshop Moves to Tadfield, not quite as M as Crowley Gets A New Look. Can an angel and a demon tango? Do you like Crowley's nail polish?


Madame Tracy queries Mary Hodges one afternoon while they're having tea.

_Mary, I've been thinking. Do you suppose a ballroom dance class might be a go in Tadfield?_

Mary had not immediately rejected the idea out of hand, having enjoyed a brief vision flashing through her mind of she and Evans doing a tango.

_Do you have any particular instructors in mind, Madame Tracy?_

_Well, no, haven't gotten nearly that far yet. It's just an idea that came to me._

_It sounds like fun! I'll do some research. Perhaps a dance instructor from outside might be willing to come for, say, a three-week tango course? I'll see if Mas- Mr. Crowley would be amenable to the use of Tadfield Manor for such a project. We do have a nice old ballroom . . ._

And so it had happened. All the way from Edinburgh, two dancing instructors - a jovial married couple in their 30s - having a sort of working summer holiday teaching the burghers of Tadfield how to tango.

* * *

The instructors have a busy schedule of 3 classes daily, divided by age groups for the adolescents, the 20- and 30-somethings, and the middle-aged and older. There is only a faint, nearly imperceptible stir at the beginning of the first evening class for the older participants when Pepper's mum and her new second mum - a statuesque older black American woman - show up. Everyone in Tadfield has already gossiped this event into extinction, it's old news. There is a far more noticeable ripple of attention when Crowley and Aziraphale walk in.

_Welcome, gentlemen. How lucky for us you that you've joined our class. Clan we partner each of you with one of our lovely ladies? _

The instructors are keenly hopeful, as this is a common unbalanced distribution in dance classes. Alas, it is not to be.

_Oh. No. Thank you. _

Aziraphale is pleasant but firm. Crowley purrs:

_We're our own partners. _

Meanwhile he gives Aziraphale an _I-am-so-seriously-considering-murdering-you_ look.

Modern times, though. Adam's parents Deirdre and Arthur are too courteous to even look surprised, much less remark. R. P. Tyler starts to swell up like a puffer fish, but is sternly quieted by his wife, who thinks a bit of tango is just what they need and he's not going to make a fuss if she has anything to do about it. Which she does.

* * *

Three weeks later, Adam, Pepper, Brian and Wensleydale are trying to sort out the previous evening's dance recital, which had been surprisingly well attended by friends of the dancers from all the classes. They had been dragooned by their parents into attending the class for teens; however, the instructors were a hip pair, and soon the kids were having fun in spite of their initial skepticism. But last night was something else. Pepper breaks the ice.

_My mums say Aziraphale and Crowley were absolutely awesome last night._

_I met Anathema this morning. She agreed with me that the whole room was practically glowing with purple auras. She wouldn't tell me what that means, though. Said my parents would be the best ones to explain it to me. But Mum and Dad didn't want to talk about it this morning._

_I suppose it must have something to do with sex. Parents never want to talk about that. _(Wensleydale, Junior Accountant, is nothing if not accurate.)

_I think it must. Jasmine kissed me on my cheek! _(Brian unconsciously puts his hand on the spot)

_My mums say it was a definite blow to the cis gender patriarchy._

* * *

What happened at the recital:

It is a dark and steamy night. A thundershower seems imminent.

Aziraphale and Crowley are in the Bentley, driving to Tadfield Manor. The angel is looking crisp and cool in a two-piece vanilla linen suit, white shirt, ethereal tie. Crowley, on the other hand, has gone in a rather different fashion direction for a hot night: slim black tailored waistcoat. Just without a shirt beneath. The satin ribbon is nicely adjusted so the vest falls to just to the right spot above the taut backside revealed by his matching tailored trousers. Slinky round snakeskin belt. Italian distressed metallic leather oxfords, sans socks. His long red hair is in a sort of carefully combed disorder. And of course the Valentino glasses and brutal Devon Tread 1 watch. On a whim, he had his fingernails lacquered maroon at the last manicure. (He'd gone to the salon in Tadfield, and the staff had talked it up for days, pleased that the fashion might at long last be coming to their village. Hopeful, they are now offering a combination facial and manicure for men at a bargain introductory price.)

Crowley parks the Bentley, but just as they go to open the doors to get out, Aziraphale takes a deep breath as if trying to smell some strange perfume.

_I say, Crowley, are you aware that your evil aroma is particularly musky tonight?_

_Evil? What's evil about it? What are you trying to say, Aziraphail? I need another shower 30 minutes after we just took one? That's not very nice of you. _

_Perhaps "evil" isn't the right word. That night before Armageddon, when you detected that the hellhound had found its master. Gabriel and Sandalphon came into the bookshop shortly after you'd left. Sandalphon noticed your aroma. Said he smelled something "evil." _

_What makes you think it wasn't the hellhound? _

_Well, only you could detect that. But I'm always aware of the way you smell. I like it. A sort of light combination of smoking aloes, whiskey, and rut. The irony of calling it an "evil" aroma rather tickled me. I told them it was due to the Jeffrey Archer books._

_Well that's just great. You think I smell like a burnt down roadhouse. Are you sure you want to go in with me?_

_Oh Crowley, don't be an ass. I said I like the way you smell. Let's not have unpleasantness. Shall we dance?_

Crowley makes a mental note to inform the angel that he smells – and tastes - like extract of bitter almonds, pepper, and ozone, apart from whatever concoction his hairdresser has inflicted upon him that week.

_. . ._

Dancers of all ages curve and swirl to various tango movements, depending upon their level of physical ability and practice. First the teens class; then the young adults. But during the third round for the older students, the crowd of performers very gradually thins as couples pause and move to the sidelines. As the music approaches the final minutes, the only dancers left are Crowley and Aziraphale. Aziraphale's gavotte, kendo, bicycling, and Divine Ecstasy sessions have paid off. Solid as a timber, he gracefully supports the sinuous Crowley as the demon glides, bends, pirouettes, and is flung about betwixt intimate caresses. The music comes to an end. Oblivious, they continue to dance, the crowd now watching in stunned silence. Not even a gum wrapper falls. Suddenly, Aziraphale notices that they're dancing alone to their own mental music, and the couple staggers to an abrupt halt. A breathless moment of silence, then the instructors clap and the crowd joins in the applause. Except for R.P. Tyler, who is still standing frozen and open-mouthed.

_Oh. Thank you. I think._

Aziraphale's face has blushed a fiery red. Crowley completely ignores the crowd and has eyes only for Aziraphale. The pair somehow magically make their way toward the exit with speed close to Cinderella's, and vanish into the night. The roar of a vintage engine can be heard.

An Irish lad, one of the under-30 participants, nudges his partner and nods significantly at the crowd.

_Jaysus, Mary and Joseph. You could practically hear the knickers clanging to the floor._

She looks him in the eye.

_And the trousers._

He laughs as he puts an arm around her waist.

_You're not wrong about that! __The ginger has a nice ass, doesn't he? (Nuzzles her cheek) Y__our parents won't take it amiss if we're out a bit late?_

_Tch. Really, Danny. As if. _She gives him a nice kiss.

* * *

Inside the Bentley:

_Well, that was a scene worthy of Monte Python. John Cleese would be proud._

_Nobody laughed. I think we actually turned on a good portion of the audience._

_We weren't ridiculous?_

_Oh no. Guessing the "great southern pansies" will be the talk of the town for a few weeks. Kiss me, angel._

_Not while you're driving, Crowley._

* * *

Later that night. Our two dance instructors, Ellen and Nick, are in nightgown and pajamas, seated companionably on the sofa and sharing a bowl nightcap. Ellen turns to Nick and asks:

_When those two first walked in to class, who did you guess was going to be the lead?_

_The tall redhead, Anthony. Chanticleer the rooster and Dame Partlet, his fluffy hen._

_Exactly. _

_Were we ever mistaken, eh? Move over, Ginger Rogers. And Mr. Fell's lead was positively masterful. The baa-lamb turns into the ram. _

_Anthony even dressed the part. You know how women ballroom dancers go for those skimpy outfits that show a lot of shoulder and leg? He could have worn something skanky like a leather vest to go about half-dressed, but that tailored waistcoat was inspired. "I should be wearing a shirt, but I'm not. Bite me." Especially with that watch that looked as if it could kill someone. Virile as a snake, but doing the femme. And the way that red hair flew around . . . Whew!_

_I trust you noticed the nice fit of those trousers, too._

_Oh yes. His tailor probably has a hard time not pinching that taut little ass. It's almost as nice as yours. _

_Well thanks for saying that. I was beginning to wonder if you were deliberately trying to make me jealous._

_Don't be silly. I find those two more of an inspiration. A reminder to let you know how much I love you. A reminder to let you know how much I love you. _(She gives him a pat on the thigh.)

_I still can't figure it. How did they go from beginners to that in a mere three weeks? Just the muscle conditioning alone should have required months. Let alone perfect coordination like that. Mr. Fell did say they were watching one particular YouTube performance and trying out the moves . . ._

_Let's stop trying to figure it out and just go with the flow of inspiration, shall we? _(Pulls her nightgown off over her head as she gets up from the couch and walks over to their bedroom.)

[Mauro Caiazza on You Tube. And as a chaser, The Masochism Tango]


End file.
